


Hands-Free

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zaehlt
Genre: Alles was zählt - Freeform, Angst, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Majorca = hot. Deniz = maudlin. Late-night drunken phone calls to your ex = never a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands-Free

Majorca is too fucking hot.

Funnily enough, Deniz isn’t the greatest fan of heat. It always feels like it’s stealing his air, pressing down on his lungs. One of the things that first appealed to him about the ice was the wide, chilly expanse of it, the crisp clarity of the air that let him breathe more freely. It goes back as far as he remembers, this curious distaste, and of course it goes against everything a Turkish man ought to be, but then again, Deniz thinks cynically, he’s gotten pretty good at being everything a Turkish man ought not to be.

The heat, and the touching. He likes being touched, and he has always enjoyed being coveted, enjoyed knowing people wanted to put their hands on him; but he wants it to be on his terms. He wants to be in charge, wants to decide who and when, wants to bestow himself like a gift upon the chosen. There hasn’t been a lot of that lately. He recalls, with something of a mental wince, those few months that went by in a frenzy of being touched, by anyone who asked and quite a few who didn’t. He remembers the disapproval of friends: people trying to break in, to get through, to spoil his fun. His father, Ingo and Annette and Diana, and of course Roman, always Roman, surrounded by a constant miasma of distaste that only made Deniz want to take it a step further, act out a bit more.

That’s done with now, but he’s still getting used to wrestling back control of who can touch him and who can’t; in his line of work that’s a hard rule to establish, let alone enforce. Friday he’s doing bikini shots at the beach with another model whose name he didn’t catch, and he doesn’t care enough to find out. At one point some guy whose job description Deniz vaguely remembers has something to do with conceptualisation – whatever the hell that means – tells them that he wants the girl to jump on Deniz’s back from behind, arms round his neck while he supports her weight with his hands under her thighs. _Keep it natural_ , Mr. Conceptualisation tells them, and at first, everything’s fine, her weight warm and supple against Deniz’s back, until she laughs in his ear and the memory hits him out of nowhere, fast and hard like a punch in the gut: two boys in a locker room, fooling around. The weight on his back solid and muscular instead of soft and giving, the slight rasp of stubble against his ear. Laughter, carefree and silly. He drops the girl so abruptly she nearly falls, and gets a good scolding from the photographer for ruining the shot. They repeat it a few times, but it doesn’t quite work; it’s all stilted, the angles are wrong, and they’re not happy with him.

Eventually, they wrap it up when afternoon clouds roll in and ruin the light; the sparkling blue sea turns slate-grey and dull, and they’ll just have to try again tomorrow. Looking out at the sullen ocean while the cameras are packed away, Deniz thinks idly that Roman’s eyes are that colour when he gets angry: the blue dimming noticeably, overtaken by stormy grey, like a cloudbank heavy with rainy disappointment. He’s seen them turn that colour quite often. The last time was at the fry stand, when he came over to commiserate over Roman’s disastrous championships performance, and got kicked in the proverbial balls for his trouble.

Screw Roman. He’s not thinking about that.

Friday night in Palma de Mallorca. The streets are packed, the clubs more so; there isn’t a bit of space to be had. The lights pulse wildly in primary colours, twitching across the faces in the crowds, the undulating limbs. At a club the photographer recommended, he drops the guy’s name as instructed and is whisked beyond thick red rope to the VIP area, where there are bland, smiling faces and garishly decorated cocktails. Deniz takes and downs whatever is put into his hand, exchanges staples of vacant flirtation with a slew of pretty faces flashing by. There’s dancing, and more drinks. Hands on his chest, his hips, hair tickling against his ear as someone bends over his shoulder. It feels familiar and stale, and he reaches blindly for another cocktail that slides down his throat in a cool rush of fruit and forgetfulness. How many times has he done this? How many times has it actually worked? He can see it all panning out so clearly: they dance and they drink and talk empty crap and maybe snort a line or two, and at some point in the wee hours of the morning he’ll wake up in someone’s bed, with someone’s limbs draped over him and a sour taste in his mouth, and nothing sounds less enticing just now.

He leaves the club early, in the end, claiming a headache that’s only half a lie. One of the girls smiles at him as she tries to convince him to stay, making a comic _pretty please_ face. She’s pretty, gorgeous even, and rather nice, actually, and he knows that he won’t remember her face two minutes after looking away.

He forces a smile. “Sorry, babe. Got places to be.”

She rolls her eyes, not fooled, but not seeming offended, either. He detaches gracelessly and stumbles out onto the street, eager for some fresh air; but there’s precious little to be had. There’s no breeze and the air is warm and sticky on his face, feeling like it’s been through a hundred sets of lungs already.

He stands on the street for a few long moments, breathing the summer air that smells none too subtly of puke and sun screen. People jostle him in passing, laughing and talking too loudly, trailing clouds of sweat and perfume. Everything seems heightened tonight, every unwanted smell and noise excruciatingly amplified; it’s almost like that first sharp sensory curve of a high, although he’s fairly sure the drinks he’s had weren’t spiked with anything more sinister than alcohol.

Surely he shouldn’t feel this jaded. He’s nineteen. A year ago… he frowns, tries to banish the thought, but it comes back, unbidden and insidious. A year ago he was… not untarnished, not quite; he was angry and guilty and scared out of his mind, but he remembers feeling like he was on the edge of something important. Like maybe he was starting to gain the shape of who he was, and like being that person might be okay. These days, that shape seems very blurry, and as for being okay with himself… well, not so fucking much.

It’s so hot, even at night. He briefly contemplates heading for the beach and a cool breeze off the sea, but quickly abandons the notion, thinking of razor blades in the sand and drunken couples having sex there. Pass on that, thanks all the same.

The hotel, then, only a short taxi ride away. The air conditioning's broken, and someone's brought in an oscillating fan that turns with a slight creak when it reaches the far left, but at least there's some air, and it's gentler than the frigid blast of the AC unit. Deniz heads for the mini bar and pours himself some of the cheap bubbly, although he knows he'll probably regret that tomorrow, on top of the cocktails he’s had. He tosses it back defiantly, then flops down on the bed, the room darkened except for the reading light on the bedside table. The numbers on the digital clock inform him that it’s 00:58. No sort of bedtime for Palma de Mallorca in summer, and indeed he’s far from tired, but his options for entertainment are limited, since he’s walked out of the one that would have ensured him a night of thoughtless fun and an almost guaranteed lay.

Instead, here’s the TV. He contemplates it briefly, then snorts and leans over to get himself another drink. The light bubbly sizzles down his throat, too sweet and fizzy, and he makes a face. What else? The phone. Well, he has his cell. If he wanted to call anyone, long-distance on the cell would probably still be cheaper than using the hotel line. And who would he call, anyway, on a Friday in August, an hour past midnight, drunk and so soggy with self-woe that it disgusts even him? His father? He’d tell him to take some aspirin and go to sleep. Vanessa? She’d hang up before he’d finished saying hello. There’s no one who doesn’t have the good sense or self-respect to turn him away, except maybe…

He’s swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for the phone before he knows what he’s doing. It’s not like he’s going to say anything; he’s not that pathetic. He just wants to hear a familiar voice, just for a moment. He’s not going to talk.

It’s only when he holds the receiver in his hand that he realises he doesn’t know the number; it’s stored in his cell, of course, and he’s so used to just pushing the name. In his maudlin state of mind, this strikes him as profoundly fitting, as if it ultimately defined their entire messed-up relationship with a cynical smirk: _Hey Roman, you’re the only person I can think of to call, and I don’t even know your number._

He fumbles for his cell phone, already telling himself he’s being ridiculous, it’s not worth the hassle: either call on the cell, if you want to talk to the guy, or stop being stupid already and don’t call. But his fingers are already entering the number from his cell into the hotel phone. The dial tone is harsh and irritating in his over-sensitised ears. It rings twice, three, four times, five. He’s about to hang up, feeling almost relieved, when there’s a click, and then, “Yes?” Roman’s voice, quite awake and sounding startlingly close. “Hello?”

Deniz doesn’t say anything; he waits, his temples throbbing and his heart suddenly racing, for the next word. “Who’s there?” A pause, then, with a sudden note of hope, “Annette? Is that you?”

Another pause. Air hits his hot face, cool and soothing. He doesn’t feel soothed. “Annette?” Hesitant now, but still hopeful, eager almost. Deniz recalls with merciless precision the last time Roman used that tone with him:  
 _Wish me luck?  
You better hurry._  
He cringes a little at the memory while close against his ear, an ocean and several countries away, Roman keeps talking. “If that’s you, listen… I know I screwed up, I know you’re pissed as hell at me, and you should be, but please, can we talk about this? Because it feels like we haven’t talked in a very…”

He stops abruptly, and Deniz, who’s been listening with closed eyes, remembers too late to put his hand over the mouthpiece. “I can hear you breathing.” Suspicion, sharp and thrilling in his ear, then loaded silence. Deniz is belatedly holding his breath; he wants to hang up, really he does, and it’s stupid not to, it’s insane and all sorts of trouble, but still he just sits there, a part of him waiting, almost hoping, perversely, for discovery, damnation, anything that means acknowledgement of some sort; and then there it is, Roman’s voice crisp and guarded. “Deniz?”

His hand drops off the mouthpiece, and strangely, suddenly, he’s calm, and hanging up is not an option, as if exposure has freed him. “Yeah.”

There’s something muttered and unintelligible that sounds suspiciously like a curse, then Roman clears his throat. “And to what do I owe this honour?” he asks, cool as you please, the jerk – as if he hadn’t been begging just a second ago, when he thought he was Annette. “Friday night, and Mr. Supermodel’s got nothing better to do than call his ex on an unlisted number? What, did the clubs in Majorca run out of coke? Fuckable girls? Boys? Whatever you’re screwing these days? ‘Cause I can hardly say that I can keep up with your-“

“Shut up,” Deniz says, already irritated; he feels like he’s been doing this for years, telling Roman to shut up while secretly hanging onto the next stupid thing he’s about to say. He rubs his hand over his forehead, feeling the heavy soddenness behind his eyes, the dull thudding that has the makings of a killer hangover tomorrow if he doesn’t drink lots of water before bed. “Just… shut up for a minute, okay?”

“I think you’re missing the point of a phone conversation,” Roman observes dryly, but he obliges, and for long moments, there is only silence, just as he wanted. Time was Roman wouldn’t have listened; would have blabbed on until Deniz shut him up with one of the few things that worked. That he listens now fills Deniz with a weird mixture of satisfaction and regret, clammy and wistful.

The fan once again sends cool air wafting over his skin as it rotates back in his direction. From outside, drunken laughter drifts up from the street; a girl’s voice lifts in a shrill sound of amusement, followed by catcalls and applause. Maybe he knows the girl. Maybe these are the people he’s spent all day with. _Whatever you’re screwing these days._

It’s dark, and his head pounds dully; he suddenly feels like crying, and he doesn’t know why.

“Deniz.” Roman’s voice in his ear, no longer biting, just tired and resigned, as if he’s absorbing his mood and reflecting it back. “Whatever this is, I don’t feel up for it. Not that you care, but I’ve had a shitty day, and I’m not in the mood for your head games. If you’ve got nothing to say-“

“I want to fuck you so bad.” He grits it out like a curse, like an admission of illness, addiction, and honestly it isn’t far off. Sometimes he feels like Roman is in his very blood like a virus, lying dormant for weeks, months, and then flaring like malaria, sending him into a frenzy of sweat and shivers and fevered dreams. “I want to rip your fucking clothes off and bend you over the table and just fuck your brains out. How’s that for something to say?”

Silence again, but it’s altered already; thickened from something bleak and despondent into something heavy and charged. He doesn’t know how he can tell, but it sizzles through the wire like electricity gone astray. Then there’s a single, audible breath and something that might be a snort of laughter or irritation or both. “When you said you’d never touch me again,” Roman’s voice drawls down the line, half annoyed, half amused, and sounding so tantalisingly close Deniz imagines he can feel his breath wafting against his ear, hot and familiar, “I didn’t know this was what you had in mind.”

He has a funny voice, Roman. He enunciates everything very clearly, in a way that should be irritating, slightly affected, but somehow comes across as endearing. Sometimes his voice overtakes itself, words hurrying out of him so fast they pitch higher and tumble all over themselves, and all you can do is shake your head and laugh at him. And then he has these moments when he’s _not_ talking a mile a minute, when his voice suddenly drops and attains this hue of intimacy, dark and slow as molasses. When that happens, no matter the circumstance, all Deniz wants to do is grab his face and chase that heavy sweetness with his tongue, wrestle it down and make it his own.

“Alright.” Cool tone, almost impersonal, but there’s a subtle undercurrent, a maddeningly elusive vibe of excitement. “After a cheap thrill while sloshed out of your head, is that it? Because you know I’d take it, even now? Because I wouldn’t turn you away? Because I’m just that pathetic?”

“I didn’t…” He breaks off, takes a deep breath, hand clenching unconsciously on the receiver. He has a hard-on, not knowing when it started; he’s throbbing and uncomfortable in his jeans, and Roman must be hot-wired into his nervous system or something, because just then, he purrs into his ear, “Are you hard?”

He draws air into his lungs, mingled summer murk and artificial coolness, and manages, “Yes.”

“Figures. I can see you, you know. All spread out, panting and hard, with that lovely blush you have, no matter how many people you’ve fucked and what sorts of things you’ve done, somehow you always manage to look all surprised and innocent, like this has never happened to you before.”

 _Oh god._ “I’m not…”

“Shut up. I’m talking.” Harsh tone, almost violent; he shuts up as he’s told, eyes closed against even the mild illumination of the reading light. “I want you to undo your fly… slowly now, don’t damage the goods. Don’t pull them down, either, just put your hand in there. How does that feel?”

Deniz complies, shoving his hand inside his jeans and closing his fingers round his eager cock like he’s never touched himself before; his hips buck upwards of their own accord and he moans, unable to hold it back.

“Tell me.” Husky tone, and he can see it so clearly if he closes his eyes: Roman’s dilated pupils, eyes darkened to quicksilver, lashes half-lowered, so beautiful it fucking _hurts_. The need to reach out, to touch, grab, fondle, hold onto, is so immediate and urgent it’s an ache in his bones, and he closes his hand on his cock hard, almost sobbing, almost drowning out the whispered question drifting down the line: “What do you want?”

Deniz can’t answer. Here he is, on the phone, that mundane, omnipresent means of instant connection that requires nothing more than words, and he feels like words are utterly beyond him; the air around him is thick and sweet with yearning, and full of the wrong things to say. “Roman…” he stammers eventually; it comes out compressed and painful, like it’s being forced out of him, and Roman’s reply is as quick as the sting of some dangerous, exotic insect, immediate and painful: “Don’t, Deniz. Don’t you fucking _dare_.” The intense fury of it, the ragged, undisguised emotion of the hissed words makes him stop, stunned and resentful. “I only wanted…”

“I’ll tell you what _I_ want from you, shall I?” Molasses again, but laced with something darker, something like poison. “I want you to take that pretty, hard cock of yours – it must be very hard by now, right? You always get turned on so easily. If I put my hands on you, would you whimper, that way that you do?” Roman’s hands, always so sure just what to do, just where to touch him. If he closes his eyes, he can see them, elegant and slender. Sometimes, when Roman was asleep, he used to take one of them and stroke the curve of the curled fingers, wondering what map of his own skin lies imprinted in them that lets them know him so unfailingly.

Roman’s voice carries on, washing against him with a rush of images, each of them going straight to his groin. “You’ve got your hand around it? Good. I want you to squeeze, just a little, do that little twist I do with my wrist, you like that, don’t you? I know you do. Do it again.”

“Is that all you got?” Deniz manages, spitting defiance even as he complies; he didn’t think of lube, and it almost hurts as he pumps himself, but he’s beyond caring. He slicks up on pre-come and spit and makes do.

“Are you getting bored?” There’s a note of danger in Roman’s voice now that sends a thrill down Deniz’s back. “Let’s work on that, shall we?” A rustle of fabric. Harsh breathing. A moan. “What are you doing?” Deniz demands.

“Why should I tell you? You don’t seem that interested. Oh… _yes_.” A hiss on the last word, sharp and eager, and Deniz almost loses it right there. “Tell me what you’re doing!”

“Say please.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Taunting, teasing caress. “You’d like to see what I’m doing right now.” Fast breathing. “See if you could…. aaah… if you could do it better-“

“Please, Roman!”

A moan, deep and thrilling. “I’ve got my fingers inside me. Getting…ready… for you. Just pushing them in nice and slow…”

He’s going to explode. “How many… fingers?”

“Two.” Sharp, hissing breath. “Three now. Not enough. You wanted to bend me over the table, didn’t you? I want you to see that, Deniz. ‘Cause I’m bending, right now. I’m over that table, with my pants round my knees, waiting for you to fuck me. Can you see that?”

God, yes, Roman bent over, his for the taking, a picture of grace and perfection because he can’t help it, can’t help being anything less than he is. Looking back at him maybe, over his shoulder, eyes hooded and inviting, body arched taut and achingly beautiful. His hands… fuck, his arm twisted back, fingers inside him, pumping… then sliding out maybe, hands stroking enticingly across his own buttocks before pulling them apart, spreading himself wide. Deniz groans, seeing it all too clearly.

“I asked you a question, Deniz. Can you see that!”

“Yes,” he grinds out between clenched teeth; his cock is throbbing in his hand; hard and pulsing and god, he wishes so hard that it wasn’t _his_ hand around it…

“Good. I’m spreading my legs for you, are you ready? Because I sure as hell am. You don’t need to be careful right now. I want it to hurt a little. You can shove it right in, hard, see if you can make me cry out if you do, just hold my hips and _push_ already…”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Deniz gasps, and Roman laughs, the bloody bastard, he _laughs_ , although it’s a little shaky, and Deniz just loses it, he grabs his cock tight and starts fisting himself almost furiously, imagining it’s Roman under his fingers, Roman twitching and throbbing and fucking his hand while he thrusts into him, relentless and full of abandon.

“Is that what you’re looking for?” Roman croons into his ear, which smarts from the pressure of the receiver. “Are you going to remember it tomorrow, when you wake up and go back to convincing yourself this is over, you’re normal, this was just another one of your little slip-ups? When you’ll tell yourself you can get this hot and bothered for girls?”

Sometimes, Deniz hates him: loathing as real and visceral as he imagines love to be. “Shut up, shut the fuck up.”

“Or what? Or you’re gonna make me?” Taunting derision against his ear, and he wants to dig his hands into Roman’s hair, pull his head back and bite his neck, hard, the way he likes it, leaving a mark for all the world to see come morning.

“Yeah, you think I can’t?” he spits back, tightening his hand around his cock and pulling hard, “You know I can, don’t you? All it takes is me sucking on your nipples and you turn into a whimpering mess. Do you remember?”

A sort of hiss is the answer, and he laughs, revelling in the knowledge that this is a two-way street, he can get to Roman as easily as the other way round.

“Pinch them for me, Roman. Roll them between your fingers, just the way I do, pull them a little, and then pinch them _hard_.” An answering whimper down the line, and he felt his lips distort in an almost feral grin. “How does it feel? Describe it to me.” A gasp, and something that sounds like the wet slap of skin on skin. “Tell me!” he demands, squeezing down hard, feeling his orgasm well up and retreat, once more, but not far off now… then, Roman’s voice, broken and short, pushed out between clenched teeth from the sounds of it:

“Feels hot. Hurts.”

“Yeah? Do you like how it hurts?”

A moan that’s half a laugh, maybe at the cheesiness of his porny line, but he’s beyond caring; his hand tightening and releasing on his cock, faster by the second, his hand slippery with pre-come, and god, if he could see Roman now, nipples sore and swollen, his mouth half-open that way he has, that dazed expression, legs spread wide, begging for it…

“Talk to me,” he demands harshly, his palm pushing down hard on his cock, still trapped inside the worn denim. Roman obliges, voice dropped to a cracked whisper. “I can feel you now. What do you want, Deniz? ‘Cause I’ll do anything, you know that, right?” Laughter again, low and ragged and not entirely sane. “You love me squeezing down on you, I remember that. Drives you fucking wild. Can you feel that now, Deniz? My arse, milking you for all that you’ve got? You used to fuck me harder then, show me you could take it, you could keep the upper hand, but you know what, _Schatz_ , I don’t think you can, not this time. I think it’s been too long since you let yourself have this, something real, something to blow your mind if you let it. The occasional romp on your damn couch is not enough, is it? So remember this, every time you screw one of your inane, brainless, muesli bar models, every time you lie to yourself… _this is how it could be_ , if you hadn’t thrown it away. You fucking coward.”

He takes it, hardly knowing it’s his own hand he’s fucking and not the clenching, familiar heat of Roman; he takes the abuse, knowing he deserves it, knowing he deserves worse, welcoming it, even. He soaks up the accusations as if they were pet names, fisting himself, desperate to get off, Roman’s breath in his ear, turning less controlled by the moment, egging him on…

He arches sharply, feels his spine bend to the point of pain as he twitches and shudders helplessly, making a mess of his pants. He hears his own ragged cry, knows he hasn’t bothered to cover up the mouthpiece, that Roman can hear every gasp and helpless shudder. By contrast, the line is quiet in his ear, not a sound, not a breath, but he’s too far gone to care: he moans his release into the ether, jerking once more, then collapsing, limp and exhausted.

When it’s over, he finds himself lying on his back, breathing harshly into the receiver, which is pressed so hard against his ear that it hurts, his legs turned to jelly. His spent cock is trapped uncomfortably against his zipper, and there’s come cooling in his underpants and trickling slowly down his thigh, gluing his jeans to his skin. Aftermath is never dignified, that much he has learned; it’s always sticky and unpleasant, and varying degrees of embarrassing, depending on who he’s with.

Right now, that doesn’t matter. For a long, timeless moment, there is silence; silence like he hasn’t heard in a long time, spacious and absolute like the ocean way out beyond the contaminated tourist beach: cool and indifferent and soothing his frenzied, scattered sense of self. For a moment, he almost knows who he is.

Roman’s voice interrupts it sharply, a honed keel cutting through the waves of drowsy contentment. “Was that good for you, baby?” There’s a note of derision to his voice, and Deniz struggles up to one elbow, trying to calm down his harsh breathing, searching for a semblance of sense, or contrition, or both. “Roman…”

“Deniz Öztürk.” Strangely formal and intimate at once; the merest hint of a question swinging along in his name. “Yes?” he asks cautiously, hating the edge of hope that sneaks into his voice, because he doesn’t hope, because he wouldn’t know what for.

The answer comes softly, almost gentle, laced with a harsh undertone of despair that seems to slice his ears to ribbons, “ _Fuck you_.”

A click, and the impersonal sound of an empty line. The phone drops from his hand, discarded like a used condom, and from far away, there’s the sound of the sea, rushing oblivious and cool against his mind, extinguishing the lingering heat.

The night is dark and silent then, but for the pounding of his heart and the distant merriment of strangers.


End file.
